A thousand eyes come to rest
in arabesque pechée,
phalanges,
metatarsi,
tarsi,
tibia and fibula,
femur,
ascending
from crypts to spires,
stones from
Figueres and Vilafranca,
Lleida,
Montjuïc,
Garraf,
one on top of another.
Do they know they're the same:
the dancer and the mason,
the choreographer and the architect?
Which of them can understand
the thousand tears?
Which of us can still see the beauty
in something we hold so close?
